Igoriffic
by Perosha
Summary: One hundred drabbles about Igor Karkaroff, just because I can.
1. Aneurysm

**Author's Note:** These drabbles don't tell a larger story. I wrote and titled each one individually, so there's no particular benefit to reading them all in the order presented here. Read five, or fifteen, or fifty of them at random—it's entirely up to you. :)

* * *

Karkaroff watched Viktor escort the unfamiliar girl up towards the top table with no shortage of consternation. Refusing to tell a soul his partner's identity and then showing up with a Hogwarts girl—!

Well.

It could be worse, he reasoned. After all, the Beauxbatons champion was with a Hogwarts student, too.

"That's Hermione Granger with your Viktor," Dumbledore supplied, having noticed Karkaroff's attentions. "Very bright girl, exceptionally talented – best in her year. And quite charming, too. Do you know, both her parents are Muggles?"

Karkaroff didn't even pretend to smile. He was fairly certain he was having an aneurysm.


	2. Apology

"I didn't want to name you, Severus."

"But you did." He looked exactly as Karkaroff remembered, greasy hair and all, though time had given his face new lines.

"Severus, I was desperate!"

"I assumed as much." The younger man coolly poured himself another glass of wine. "Though what you hope to gain by resuscitating our friendship is beyond me. It's been fourteen years, Igor."

Karkaroff drew his furs around himself protectively. This wasn't the welcome he'd expected at all.

"Severus, I..." He tried to think of something to say. "I'm sorry."

Severus smirked into his wineglass.

"I'm sure you are."


	3. Arrival

The ship bobbed on the waves of its own whirlpool before stabilizing and gliding smoothly towards the lakeshore. Perched near the prow, Karkaroff could just see the waiting crowd on Hogwarts' sloping lawn. It looked as though Beauxbatons were here already.

He didn't need to give orders. The students were all seventh years, and by tradition, they operated the ship on its yearly voyage to and from Durmstrang. Navigating to Hogwarts hadn't been an ordeal.

Lavrov dropped anchor while the others came up from below. Karkaroff himself disembarked first.

It was the first time he'd touched British soil since Azkaban.


	4. Awkward

Igor had never been on a ship before, much less one that traveled underwater, and was finding it intriguing. That is, if you called nearly falling over every time the current changed "intriguing."

The other first years in the cabin were having mixed reactions to the journey, as well. Most seemed fine, but a couple (like himself) surreptitiously clutched whatever they were sitting on whenever the ship lurched. One girl in the corner looked green around the gills.

Was the trip _always_ this quiet? he wondered. Was the silence always so—

The ship pitched Igor forward onto the floorboards.

—awkward?


	5. Betrayal

"Wait, I have more!"

It was a useless lie. Karkaroff felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple; perspiration dampened his shackled wrists. _You will be returned to Azkaban_—and conveniently forgotten about, with only one name to absolve you.

Back to Azkaban: to ice, to rot, to stone floors and steel bars and no company but the tortured screams in his own head. To suffering, and madness, and a brutally slow death. He could feel the dementors waiting just outside.

There was one more name. But only one. 

A friend's.

Karkaroff paused.

_"Snape!"_ He swallowed hard. "Severus Snape!"


	6. Birthday

Karkaroff kept his face hooded as he slid the bartender some Muggle money and accepted his drink swiftly, as though fearing theft. By all rights, he shouldn't be here; it was too conspicuous, too crowded. But he had been fleeing for months now, and allowed himself this lapse of reason. It was his fifty-fourth birthday.

Grimacing, Karkaroff drained the shot of vodka and ordered another. As a wizard, he had many years ahead of him, but those were now terrifyingly uncertain. All he could do was keep running and pray he'd live to see fifty-five.

_Happy birthday, you old fool._


	7. Blame

Headmistress Rostova pursed her thin lips and glared over the tops of her spectacles, somehow managing to convey intense disapproval without actually scowling.

"Please attempt to justify yourselves," she said calmly. "It will amuse me."

Neither of them answered. Igor winced at the pain throbbing through his bleeding nose and every inch of skin that had been hit by Mikhail's expert Contusion Curse; Mikhail was cut in places, but seemed okay.

"We got in a fight," Mikhail grunted.

"Oh really, Grinkov?" _Now_ she scowled. "Would you care to enlighten me further, Karkaroff?"

Igor gulped.

"I...Well...Um, he started it..."


	8. Boarding

Dark waves sloshed against the hull of the skeletal ship towering above a bustling throng of parents, children, and baggage. On the dock, a skinny, black-haired boy paused his struggle with a battered trunk to admire the massive vessel, its sides draped with banners bearing the Durmstrang crest.

Durmstrang. At last, after all the stories...Natalya's of the strict teachers and challenging curriculum, Ivan and Yuri's of the castle's many hidden nooks (perfect for stuffing little brothers into). At last, _he_ was going.

Igor tried to look resolute as he dragged his trunk up the gangplank, secretly holding his breath.


	9. Boring

Karkaroff flicked his wand as he strolled between the rows of empty desks, sending quill fluff and bits of parchment zooming into the bin beside the door. He'd grown used to students' messiness, but that didn't mean he let it run rampant.

A scrap of parchment near his boot caught his eye, and he Summoned it, unfolding the edges. It bore two styles of handwriting.

_SO bored!_

_Me too._

_When do we get to learn the GOOD curses?_

_Maybe next year?_

_This sucks._

_Yeah._

It was hardly flattering – particularly the doodle of himself writing _BLAH BLAH BLAH_ on the chalkboard.


	10. Chess

"Your turn."

"Shut up." Stefan glared at Igor over their restless chess pieces. "I'm thinking."

Igor watched the older boy search the board for weakness.

There. A twitch of the mouth, a murmured command – his knight galloped forward, seizing Igor's queen.

"Check, Karkaroff."

Igor promptly ordered a bishop into place behind the knight. "Check_mate."_

Stefan stared at the board. Then, realizing his error, he offered a congratulatory glare and rose, stalking away. His silence proved his fury at losing to a third year.

Igor smirked. He didn't hold pieces well, but was excellent at covering his tracks in a pinch.


	11. Chocolate

The Yule Ball, though only halfway over, had already turned into a memorably miserable evening for Igor Karkaroff. He had misplaced his favorite cloak; Viktor had shown up to the dance with a Hogwarts Mudblood; and Severus had ignored his worries about the Dark Mark. Karkaroff moodily munched on a biscuit and reassured himself that it could be worse. No one was bothering him, for one. And whatever his emotions, he at least _looked_ impeccable.

"Happy Christmas, Igor!"

He nearly dropped the biscuit. It was Dumbledore.

"Delightful refreshments, aren't they? You've chocolate in your goatee."

Karkaroff quietly grit his teeth.


	12. Christmas

Everything at Durmstrang was about tradition. That included Christmas. And Christmas trees. Namely, the cutting down and hauling in of Christmas trees by fourth years and up.

Without magic.

"Igor, you lazy sod! Get over here and help!"

The first snowball nicked Igor's shoulder; the second splatted against his cloak.

"You've already got it," he pointed out, watching Anna and the others struggle with the heavy ropes affixed to the felled trunk. "What's left for me to do?"

_"Get over here_ or I'll _paste you_ to this goddamned tree with a Sticking Charm!"

Igor snorted. "You wouldn't dare."

She did.


	13. Cold

It was so, so cold.

Karkaroff did not know how they managed to keep himself and the others alive in this cold. There were no fires or obvious Insulating Charms at hand; the cold penetrated every layer of his body, his fingernails were always blue, yet he did not become hypothermic. Not during the daytime, anyway.

Shivering, Karkaroff pressed his spine to the freezing stone wall, curling instinctively to conserve body heat. He tried to remember Warmth, and a vision flickered past – _bright torches, crackling gently, lining the classroom's walls_ – but the image disappeared instantly.

It was so, so cold...


	14. Collision

They were out of sight now, despite their size, but he knew which way they'd been heading and followed, hurrying beneath the eves of the forest. Unless Karkaroff was very much mistaken, the gamekeeper would be showing Madame Maxime the first task of the Tournament, so all he had to do was sneak a look without being seen. Shouldn't be too difficult; the grounds were completely desert—

_"Ouch!"_

Karkaroff collided with something solid. Staggering, he righted himself and whirled, searching low in the surrounding gloom. If he were caught spying...

"Who's there?" he demanded, twice.

But there was no one.


	15. Company

Karkaroff's impressions of the Yule Ball thus far were mixed. The food was admittedly enjoyable, but the company?

Not so much.

He'd actually had to interrupt Viktor's conversation with the Mudblood to prevent him from revealing Durmstrang's location; Dumbledore had used it as an opportunity to recount some incomprehensible anecdote about chamber pots. Karkaroff hid his annoyance behind a steely yellow smile and sliced his pork chops with more enthusiasm than was entirely necessary.

He needed to get away – talk to Severus, if possible. Besides, if he stayed here too long, Dumbledore would probably rope him into dancing with someone.


	16. Concession

"You have names?"

Karkaroff nodded weakly, gazing up at the backlit profile of Bartemius Crouch on the other side of the bars. He wanted to stand, but wasn't sure he had the strength – or the nerve.

Crouch's voice was sharp.

"How many?"

"E...Enough." Karkaroff swallowed. "I promise, it is enough."

"You can promise nothing," Crouch snapped, almost sneering. "Many of your fellows have already been caught."

"I..." Karkaroff faltered, but summoned what meager resolve he had. "I wish...to...to help the Ministry..."

"You wish to save your own skin." Crouch sounded disgusted. "But, as you have _offered_...Very well."


	17. Concussion

Karkaroff kicked the cabin door closed, collapsing into a chair. He felt slightly dazed, and more than slightly incensed.

Viktor had been attacked by a judge. Damn Dumbledore's pacifistic prattling – _his_ student had been _attacked_. First Potter and now this. It was unbearable. Vaguely he remembered telling Dumbledore so, just now, at the forest...but the memory was strangely muddled. His head was throbbing; perhaps he'd finally burst a blood vessel at the sheer injustice of it all.

The pain didn't abate. Muttering darkly, Karkaroff held his head in his hands, then paused.

Why was there..._foliage_...in his hair?


	18. Congratulations

"It's officially approved, then?"

"Yes. You will continue as full-time Headmaster. Which means you'll have to find another Dark Arts teacher." Professor Zorbev shrugged his broad shoulders. "I was not expecting them to keep you."

"Neither was I," Karkaroff admitted, then added hastily, "That is to say, I would have been perfectly happy if the school governors had elected someone else. Ivana's death was unfortunate." He exhaled. "My own tenure these few months has been _most_ stressful..."

"Don't lie, Igor," Zorbev said brusquely. "You were never any good at it."

Karkaroff stopped short, but Zorbev only chuckled.

"My congratulations, _Headmaster."_


	19. Correspondence

Being the target of his brothers' practical jokes inhibited Igor's contact with older students his first two years at Durmstrang, but once they'd both left school, things were easier – not the least because he didn't have to worry about surprise hexings between classes. He actually went so far as to make friends above his year, though he didn't keep in touch with them once they'd left.

The only real exception was Antonin Dolohov. Others only remembered his skill as a Beater, but he and Igor shared academic interests. It was nice to have someone to trade new curse ideas with.


	20. Coward

Karkaroff wished he were the man others thought he was, because others thought him a coward.

True, he was a coward, and he knew it. But to others, that was all – a thin shell of fear enclosing total emptiness.

He wished it were so, because he could handle fear. It was everything else that unsettled him: the despair, the bitter regret, even something that tasted like sorrow as he curled to sleep on the hard Siberian ground, shivering under a ragged cloak.

Karkaroff wished he were merely a cardboard coward, instead of a three-dimensional human. It would hurt much less.


	21. Curiosity

Karkaroff didn't slow his rapid pace, though he knew his students were straggling. He could practically feel Moody's magical eye boring into the back of his head.

That bastard was here at Hogwarts – teaching, presumably. The bastard who'd damned him to the dementors—

"Professor? _Professor!"_ It was Poliakoff, jogging to keep up. "Who vos that man? Vith the eye? And vos that boy really Harry Pot—"

_"Shut up!"_ Karkaroff snarled. "Shut up! No questions! From _any_ of you!"

Unfortunately, "no questions" didn't mean "lack of interest." The deluge of curious whispers followed him all the way to the ship.


	22. Dare

"Go on. Do it."

Basil nudged him, nearly upsetting his balance, as they were both peering around the corner at the approaching sixth year and her entourage. Vera Rukovskaya, the beautiful, the domineering, unchallenged goddess of Durmstrang Institute. _The_ Vera Rukovskaya.

"C'mon, Igor, you promised..."

"I can't!" He blanched. "She'll hex me!"

Basil snatched for the back of his robes, but Igor was too quick – a blur of terrified twelve-year-old pelting down the corridor.

"You _said _you'd do it!" he hollered, following.

Igor grimaced. Like hell he was actually going to ask Vera Rukovskaya what color her bra was today.


	23. Delight

The dementors liked Karkaroff because he was weaker and more entertaining than the rest. The other captured Death Eaters were stoics, mostly; they screamed infrequently and never cried, adopting instead a sort of slumped hollowness, staring emptily at the walls.

Karkaroff, however, gave a good show. Pry: he whimpered. Pry deeper: he wailed. Pry deeper still: a cacophany of screams and sobs, bloody fingers tearing at the frigid stone, the sweet song of suffering ending always in broken silence.

It was not possible for dementors to know disappointment, but they came close when Karkaroff left. He was such a delight.


	24. Different

He was dead. 

Karkaroff stumbled away from the body, falling against the brick wall of the alley, temporarily ignoring his instincts' demands for flight. Numbly, he let the night's chilling darkness seep through his hooded robes, consuming him.

He didn't know the wizard's name, but he was – had been – a pureblood. Most likely, he'd been offered a chance to aid the Dark Lord's cause and refused.

Karkaroff finally Disapparated, but not before tearing off his mask and retching violently behind a pile of old garbage.

This had been his first mission alone. It was different, committing murder all by yourself.


	25. Easier

Natalya knew her brothers would spare no expense to initiate the youngest Karkaroff into Durmstrang Institute on his first day there, but even _she_ expected them to remember where they'd trapped him.

"Just keep trying the paintings," Yuri had said. "I'm pretty sure it was on the fourth floor."

She hexed him and Ivan soundly and spent dinnertime roaming the corridors, tapping on canvases. Finally, she discovered Igor behind a still life, quite terrified (and painfully close to wetting himself).

"Fight back," she advised. "Pay attention in Dark Arts."

Igor did. But it was always easier to just run away.


	26. Eavesdropping

"Look who's moping."

Sergei nudged her, grinning. Peering through the festive tangle of lighted rosebushes, Katerina could just see Headmaster Karkaroff sitting on a bench, winding his goatee around a finger and looking extremely put out.

"He was with the Potions teacher," Sergei continued, still grinning. "Bet he's upset because he wouldn't dance."

"Sergei—!" Katerina hissed warningly.

"Of course, that's the potionmaster's loss. What kind of man refuses a dance with the mother of _Viktor Krum?"_

A curse blasted the rosebushes apart, bowling Sergei over. Karkaroff was suddenly much too near.

"To the ship! Detention!" he snarled, livid. _"Now!"_


	27. Encounters

Karkaroff reached the doors of the Great Hall, his students trailing behind, he himself mulling over Viktor. Really, he wasn't helping himself by pretending he wasn't ill; dreadfully hard-headed, for all his talent...A Hogwarts student stopped to let Karkaroff through the door, and Karkaroff thanked him offhandedly, sparing him a glance before continuing.

Hm. Funny scar, that. Shaped rather like—

Karkaroff froze.

Slowly, he turned his head, staring. It couldn't be.

And yet...

He looked the right age. And he'd certainly have come to Hogwarts, once he was old enough...

"Yeah, that's Harry Potter," came a horribly familiar growl.


	28. Enigma

No one on staff asked, directly, but all wondered. Almost two years of Igor's absence had been spent in the Western prison, Azkaban, but he never spoke of it, even in passing. They knew only what was apparent by observation: a feigned charm deepened now to perpetual chill and falsehood, a new measuring of distance and erecting of barriers between himself and his colleagues. He never gave a genuine smile.

Once, that first year, Professor Zorbev walked in on Igor shivering at his desk, eyes closed, huddled as though trapped in a small space. But that was all anyone knew.


	29. Euphamism

"Igor, let me put this simply." Headmistress Rostova sighed and steepled her fingers. "You've been an idiot."

Karkaroff did not argue; the memories of Azkaban were too raw. Two months now, and he still had not regained enough weight to look healthy.

"I am not guaranteeing that you can resume as Dark Arts teacher. However..." Her gaze lingered on his prematurely graying hair and gaunt features. "I encourage you to submit your application. The school board may be impressed by your recent years of...shall we say, fieldwork."

"You could call it that." Karkaroff grimaced.

Rostova smiled wryly.

"I daresay."


	30. Expectation

The Great Hall quieted as Dumbledore approached the Goblet of Fire. Karkaroff leaned forward, hungrily watching the dancing blue flames, his features tight with expectation.

There were no guarantees. He'd prepared Viktor for championship, but there were, in the end, no guarantees. If the Goblet chose someone else...Volmer, or (Merlin forbid) that insufferable Poliakoff...

A jet of red flame spurted from the Goblet.

"The champion for Durmstrang..."

Choose Viktor, choose Viktor, choose—

"...Viktor Krum!"

Karkaroff applauded heartily, making it a point to be heard over the tumult.

_"Bravo, Viktor! Knew you had it in you!"_

Inwardly he sighed, relieved.


	31. Fantasy

Karkaroff had few moments of undiluted joy in his life, but Viktor striding out of the maze with the Triwizard Cup aloft was one of them. The other Durmstrang students veritably exploded; Karkaroff knew he was clapping and cheering, but somehow couldn't hear it above the rush of his own euphoria. He wanted to freeze everything, to savor it: the students lifting a disgruntled but happy Viktor onto their shoulders, the shimmering glow of the Cup that was forever Durmstrang's, Dumbledore and Madame Maxime's expressions.

It was a wonderful fantasy. But that wasn't how that night had gone at all.


	32. Fire

Every room in Castle Durmstrang had a fireplace. Every room in Castle Durmstrang _needed_ a fireplace. But by tradition, they were only lit for magical purposes; instead, the students taught themselves Warming Charms and conjured their own small, portable flames in their dormatories. It built character, the theory ran. Even the teachers were subject to this rule.

Karkaroff poured himself a tad more vodka and leaned back in his chair, feet propped up before the amber flames filling the low hearth. Warmth tinged his pale face; light made golden the silver streaks in his hair.

Headmastership definitely had its perks.


	33. Flying

"How are you supposed to play Quidditch if you can't fly?"

Igor gripped the handle of the school broom tightly, trying to ignore both the alarming hum that consumed it and his brother's scornful gaze boring into him.

"Are you sure this is safe?"

"Of course it's safe. Just get on and kick off, you big baby."

"I'm not a baby!"

"Prove it."

The broom thrummed almost audibly. Igor conquered his anxiety long enough to mount, but stayed firmly rooted to the earth.

Yuri scowled.

"What are you waiting for?"

The broom soared up...

...and _up_...

...and then down.

Hard.


	34. Forever

"Rise, my servant."

Shakily, Karkaroff stood. The fresh Mark seared his arm like needles being driven beneath his flesh. He gritted his teeth; they said the pain was another of His tests.

"Igor Karkaroff."

He did his best not to flinch. His own name spoken in that sibilant hiss sounded like a quiet curse.

"You are now a Death Eater. Whom do you serve?"

"Only you, my lord."

"Whom do you despise?"

"Any whose blood is impure, my lord."

The Dark Lord smiled.

"And how long will you serve me?"

The pain in Karkaroff's forearm stabbed hotly.

"Forever...my lord."


	35. Fun

The crowd howled with laughter, following the Death Eaters as they marched through the campsite; those not participating fled, leaving behind empty tents soon destroyed by the terrifying procession.

Karkaroff lurked in the safety of the copse, paralyzed, watching the mob from a distance. These, like him, had escaped justice – but he could not afford to join them, even if he wanted to. There was always the chance that one of his names had been someone's comrade, possibly even friend. Instead he simply watched, and waited.

For some reason, it didn't look like as much fun from on the outside.


	36. Gift

Karkaroff smiles wryly and smooths down his gift to himself, vaguely wishing for a full-length mirror to better appraise it. The silver furs catch the torchlight, sleek and supple, wrapping snugly around his thin shoulders and falling like a cloak of gleaming snow down his back. His hair is already trying match them.

Straightening, Karkaroff paces a little, trying to get the feel of the furs swishing along with his movements. Doubtless he's paid too much for them, but this one time, he doesn't mind letting it go.

After all, it isn't every day one becomes Headmaster of Durmstrang Institute.


	37. Goatee

Karkaroff turned his head this way and that, examining his handiwork in the chipped mirror above the bathroom sink. Too short? Too pointy? Not curly enough? Better twirl it once more, just to be on the safe side.

Another minute of careful labor passed. Again he leaned over the sink, scrutinizing himself, stopping only to charm away some faint grime from the mirror. He stepped back, admiring the new goatee's full effect on his countenance, and could not subdue a smirk. A finger wound through it carefully, giving it one last tug.

_Damn._ If that wasn't sexy, then what was?


	38. Goodbye

He'd given a speech. It was only natural: being Headmaster, he was technically required to give speeches for everything.

Though he'd gotten by without start- and end-of-term addresses for years, he could not avoid making some kind of public statement when he and the Triwizard contenders had boarded the ship for Hogwarts. Karkaroff had rattled off something pompous about the glory and honor of the school he'd called home most of his life, but even he hadn't liked the result. He'd had other things on his mind.

Now Karkaroff wished he'd spoken more carefully. He would have told Durmstrang goodbye.


	39. Harbinger

A yellow bead of wax trickles down the stub of a burning taper, the tiny flame battling the bone-numbing chill that invades the school after midnight. The mahogany desk is cluttered – Ministry forms and letters from parents, half-empty inkwells and drafts of missives, the dregs of a glass of brandy, some quills, the Headmaster. This last is slumped over, head resting in the crook of his elbow, uncerimoniously drooling on a letter to Albus Dumbledore: yes, he will come to the Tournament. In sleep, his breathing is measured.

Imperceptibly, the thin red lines on the Headmaster's left forearm grow clearer.


	40. Hatred

Igor always hated Muggles because he was told to. He never met any, certainly not at Durmstrang, and they remained for him like a plague in another land, distant and foul.

It wasn't until he left school and went to work for the Ministry that he understood firsthand. The Muggles were cruel and simple-minded, the governments that ruled them even more so. Their leaders wanted secrets, Veritaserum, the Killing Curse that left no trace; they built hideous things that cursed thousands at once and stockpiled them like Galleons.

Igor knew Muggles were inferior beings, but more importantly, he knew why.


	41. Hiding

Igor Karkaroff's first day of his first year at the world-famous Durmstrang Institute had, largely thanks to his brothers, consisted of three major components. These were 1) getting lost, 2) getting hexed, and 3) getting his head dunked in two toilets per floor.

It was no good trying to fight them. He knew some jinxes, but there wasn't much he could do; Yuri and Ivan were sixth and seventh years, respectively, and could block anything he cast with their eyes closed. Thus, he resorted to simpler, more effective tactics.

That year, Igor got very, very good at not being found.


	42. Hoax

It was a strange letter – no name, no date, and oddest of all, no tracking spells.

_Headmaster Karkaroff:_

You don't know me, because I'm not Viktor Krum, but I forgive you for that. I don't know if this note will find you, as I don't know where you are, but I'm sending it regardless.

The professors say you're absent, but everyone knows you're running away. What from is under debate. All we know is that someone powerful wants you dead.

I'm sorry. Good luck.

It had to be a hoax, Karkaroff decided. But for some reason, he kept it anyway.


	43. Houseguest

"This is your home?"

Severus doesn't reply; it's a rhetorical question, after all. Karkaroff absorbs everything quickly, as there isn't much to see: bookshelves, mostly, with some dilapidated old furniture clustered in the living area almost as an afterthought. As they step forward, Severus lights a candle-filled lamp with his wand.

"I apologize for the...ah, state of things." The young man's mildly sarcastic civility never fails to amuse Karkaroff. "I assume you're used to better, coming from Durmstrang."

Karkaroff chuckles, habitually stroking his dark goatee as he peruses the rows of books.

"You forget, Severus – I was a teacher."


	44. Hug

"My last one." The frail but pretty woman smiled softly and stroked her son's sleek black hair; she had to reach, as he was half a head taller than her. "My little Igor."

"Stop it, Mother. People are watching." Fidgeting, the lanky young man glanced around the bustling dock, hoping no one had noticed. "I'm not a child anymore."

"Of course," she replied, but her tone was gentle. "Take care of yourself, Igor. Study hard for your N.E.W.T.s."

"I will."

He stepped away. She smiled.

"Getting on that ship without giving me a hug?"

Igor glanced around quickly, then consented.


	45. Indication

No one heard from Igor after the Tournament. The students' story of his disappearance made sense to those on staff who knew exactly what he had been doing during those few years of absence from teaching, and no one attempted to contact him. Pilkin assumed headmastership and managed well enough.

Igor had kept a small cabinet in his office, personally cursed and sealed, stocked with fine spirits. Every morning, Pilkin tried to open it with a simple _Alohamora,_ and every morning, the cabinet repelled the spell.

On the morning the cabinet swung open, the staff stopped wondering where Igor was.


	46. Infant

In the cool darkness of a small room, a tired woman nurses her infant, soothing him with foolish noises, willing his pale blue eyes closed. She is quiet, and she is lucky; the other children do not wake. Delicately, she lowers the boy back into the cradle, kisses his soft forehead, slips away across the narrow hall.

The baby sleeps soundly. He knows the warmth of his mother's touch; he knows who he is. But _what_ is he, this meager bundle of skin and cloth?

Someday – a mentor, a murderer, a teacher, a coward.

But for now, simply a possibility.


	47. Introduction

The apothecary was dimly lit and cool, the stuffy air filled with mingling scents by turns nauseauting and aromatic. Karkaroff twirled a finger through his dark goatee, scanning the shelves, trying to ignore the lingering sting of the fresh Mark. Antonin had told him to meet another member here, someone like himself who had long heard of the cause but only recently joined it. They would be part of the same network.

Antonin's description matched the surly-looking young man half Karkaroff's age organizing vials behind the counter. Karkaroff stepped forward.

"Severus, is it?"

The young man scowled.

"Not to you."


	48. Joke

Karkaroff paced his cabin furiously, silver furs rustling. He wanted someone to yell at, but he'd already given Dumbledore his opinion of tonight's events. 

Putting Harry Potter in as a second Hogwarts champion – breaking the rules of the Tournament _and_ blatantly spitting in Karkaroff's face – oh, yes, very funny. _Very_ funny joke. And that on top of having Moody as a teacher and Crouch as a judge...He smirked bitterly. All they'd forgotten were the giant posters screaming _LET'S DREDGE UP HORRIBLE MEMORIES THAT IGOR KARKAROFF DOESN'T WANT TO THINK ABOUT EVER AGAIN._

But they'd probably be up by tomorrow.


	49. Judging

Karkaroff glowered at the universe in general as Bagman gave Potter a ten. The wretched boy deserved a zero. He'd used a _broomstick,_ for Merlin's sake – flown around the Horntail like the task was a Quidditch match. The point of the tournament was to test the champions' magical prowess, not their athletic ability...and _if_ it came to that, Viktor could have flown circles around his dragon. Severus was right; Potter was clearly a damned little showoff.

Unfortunately, Karkaroff reasoned, it would be impolite to give Potter no marks whatever. Sourly, he raised his wand and conceded to a four.


	50. Killing

They said killing ripped the soul apart.

Karkaroff watched blood trickle from the corner of the dead Muggle's mouth, sweating under his black robes, wand quivering in his grasp. If he watched that one thin red line, and that alone, he could drown in it: the animal thrill of the pack-hunt with the Marked, the raw taste of power and hate and defiance in his mouth as they rained Unforgivables on the night's prey, spilling dirty blood mysteriously as red as their own. Always, always watch the blood, Karkaroff told himself.

Otherwise, he risked glimpsing their wide, white, screaming eyes.


	51. Laughter

Antonin kicked the dead Muggle's body, enjoying the satisfying crack of the broken bone he'd hit.

"Filthy bastards." He grinned beneath the mask. "It's a rush, isn't it?"

Karkaroff's answer was a laugh: a very strange laugh, pleased but high, brittle, as though it were stretched thin trying to accommodate more than one emotion.

"We should go; the Aurors might show up early for once," Antonin said. "You do the honors, Igor."

The expression behind Karkaroff's mask matched his ambiguous laughter as he aimed skyward and cast _Morsmordre_ for the first time. Before the Mark had settled, they were gone.


	52. Letters

He wrote half a dozen letters while on the run and burned them all before completion. Karkaroff couldn't afford to communicate with anyone; owls were too easy to track, especially over long distances. Still, he had things to say, and sometimes he put quill to parchment and tried to say them.

Three letters were to his colleagues at Durmstrang, explaining. He needed them to understand.

Two letters were to Viktor, apologizing. He wasn't sure what for, but he was certain that he needed to.

The last letter was addressed to Severus, but he soon realized there was nothing to say.


	53. Logic

If you don't think about it, it won't happen.

It was child's logic, but Karkaroff used it anyway – unconsciously, in desperation. He knew he was doomed from the night he fled, knew his pursuers would be stopped by nothing, but he refused to outright believe in his death. Even when they were mere days behind him, he contacted no one and penned no will, clinging instead to shards of what passed for hope. If he ran far enough...if he hid well enough...if he believed hard enough...he would be safe.

It was child's logic, and it ended him.


	54. Memories

Interestingly enough, he didn't remember the actual funeral. Try as he might, he could never conjure any images of the wake or burial; all he recalled was his mother kneeling as she adjusted the high, stiff, itchy collar of his formal robes. She hadn't looked sad, then – just gaunt, and tired, and a little pale. The sadness had come later.

"Don't cry, Igor," she'd said. He distinctly remembered that. "Don't cry in front of them."

He'd obeyed, but only because he was really too young to understand. Later, he would, but by then there would be no place for tears.


	55. Messenger

Karkaroff looked up at the cabin door when the knock came; doubtless it was Viktor, back to report on the third task.

However, the booming voice that accompanied the second knock was definitely not Viktor's.

"Professor Karkaroff?"

With a flick of his wand, Karkaroff unlocked the door; it swung open to reveal the Hogwarts gamekeeper squeezed into the outside corridor.

"What is the meaning of this?" Karkaroff asked, both annoyed and surprised.

"Yeh'd better follow me," the giant man said. "Professor Dumbledore wants ter see ya...somethin' abou' yer champion..."

"Viktor?" Karkaroff stiffened. "Is something wrong?"

The gamekeeper didn't answer.


	56. Motivations

Karkaroff clapped Viktor on the shoulder, ignoring the chatter of the crowd taking their seats for the third task.

"Well, Viktor, this is it. Are you ready?"

Viktor shrugged off Karkaroff's hand, slouching in an accepting way that meant he understood the rest of Karkaroff's unspoken dialogue. It involved overuse of the words _victory_, _honor_, and _glory_, in that order.

"You _will_ win, Viktor," Karkaroff asserted. There was a tinge of something uncharacteristically fierce beneath his flattery. "You're the only _real_ champion on this field tonight. Bring me that Cup."

"If I vin," Viktor responded carefully, "I vin…for Durmstrang."


	57. Musings

"It's all over, huh?"

Igor didn't respond. Sprawled here on the grounds, watching Basil and the others chase a spare Quaffle, it was impossible to believe he'd just taken his last exam ever.

"What happens now?" Igor asked rhetorically. Lera tucked her knees up to her chin.

"Well, _you're_ going into the Ministry."

"And why is that?"

"Don't be thick." Lera rolled her eyes. "You're ace at the Dark Arts. They'll throw gold at you to come."

"True enough." Igor grew thoughtful. "But...I think I'd like to come back here, someday."

"What – to teach? _You?"_ Lera laughed. "Whatever, Karkaroff."


	58. Navigation

There were separate cabins on the Durmstrang ship for every year except seventh. Seventh years didn't get cabins. They navigated.

With supervision.

Usually.

"We're _on_ course!" Anna snapped. "Merlin, you're such a sissy."

"How do you _know?"_ Igor jabbed his wand at the mess of ever-changing coordinates on the magical map. "Who could possibly make sense of that?"

_"I_ can, thank you," Lera said, "and she's right, we're doing fine. Besides, we can't be worse than last year's crew. Remember how Malinkov didn't tar that one cabin and it leaked?"

Igor did indeed remember that. It had been his cabin.


	59. News

He read the letter again.

_Regret to inform you...change of plans...feel it wisest to keep him close to home...certain you'll understand. _

_Regards,  
L. Malfoy_

Karkaroff grimaced and considered the parchment for a moment before tapping it with his wand. It charred immediately and curled into black ash.

So the Malfoy brat wasn't coming next year after all. Well, so much the better. He'd hardly wanted the son of a fellow Death Eater snooping around his school in the first place, but especially not Lucius's son.

If he were anything like his father, he'd be an unbearable prat.


	60. Offer

"Well, well!" 

Karkaroff smiled congenially at the surly young man slouching in the chair across from him.

"Signed by the Vultures – well done! It's about time someone recognized Durmstrang's Quidditch prodigy, I think. You'll start flying with them when?"

"Next season."

"Good, good." Karkaroff smiled wider, exposing even more yellowing teeth. "Well, we can't have you falling behind while you're training – you'll be taking O.W.L.s this term, after all. I've already spoken with your parents, and we've agreed that it would be best if you had extra tutoring with me, to keep up. What do you say?"

Krum grunted noncommittally.


	61. Office

This was it.

Karkaroff turned a circle slowly, taking everything in – the low fireplace, varnished wooden desk and bookcase, slight smell of stale stone. Rostova's effects had been removed, but these bare basics were familiar enough. Every time Karkaroff had entered the headmaster's office in the past three decades, all this had greeted him, and now it was his.

With a flick of his wand, the barrenness began to vanish. Quills and parchment nestled into open drawers; curios arrayed themselves along the mantle; the bookcase filled. A thud announced the closing of a trunk, emptied.

Despite himself, Headmaster Karkaroff smiled.


	62. Omen

Karkaroff's long strides slowed as he approached the ship, admiring its imposing profile against the clear November sky. The rigging somewhat resembled the dark trees of the Forbidden Forest just beyond.

At the Forest's near edge, something large moved.

He halted, uncertain, peering warily across the distance. The indistinguishable shape shifted, seemed to stretch a pair of batlike wings – or were they more shadows? He couldn't tell. Soon the thing disappeared, melting into the darkness beneath the trees.

Karkaroff stared at the place where it had been for a moment before shaking himself a little and hurrying up the gangplank.


	63. Only

Igor looked around the bustling dock, scanning for familiar faces. There was Basil, who waved when he saw Igor; Dmitri and Anna, already hauling their trunks up the gangplank; and Lavrik, conversing with some of his Quidditch friends.

Something was different. This would be his fifth time to board the ship for Durmstrang, but something was different, and he studied the faces around him for an answer. When his mother told him to double-check the locks on his trunk, however, he realized what it was. He was alone.

This year, he would be the only Karkaroff getting on that ship.


	64. Opportunity

Karkaroff massaged the sleep from his face and thanked Merlin it was Saturday; there was no way he could have forced himself to rise early enough to teach class. Antonin's visit had lasted much longer than anticipated; the news he'd brought had kept Karkaroff riveted until well past three in the morning.

Antonin couldn't say everything, obviously, but the low whispers tantalized Karkaroff even now. Something big was happening in the West. People were uniting, organizing, taking real action against the social forces destroying the pureblood community's authority.

"Come join us, Igor," Antonin had urged. "He has promised such _power..."_


	65. Order

Karkaroff waited until Potter had left the classroom to speak, albeit anxiously.

"Severus, you can't keep ignoring this! It's so clear now—"

"I have told you my opinions, Igor, and I do _not_ appreciate you hounding me further, especially when I am trying to teach class. I distinctly recall telling you that no matter what happens, _I_ will be remaining _here."_

"No matter what happ..." Karkaroff trailed off, paling. "Severus, you can't mean—does Dumbledore think that—"

"I am not privy to Dumbledore's thoughts, Igor. Now do us both a favor and drop the subject." He glared. "Permanently."


	66. Patronus

_"Expecto Patronum!"_

A film of silvery mist escaped his wand and immediately dissolved yet again. The whispered jeers of his classmates stung his pride, but they were nothing compared with Professor Baronova's glare. She tapped her wand against her fingernails.

"If you expect a N.E.W.T. credit this year, Igor, kindly pay more attention to the _defense_ portions of my lectures. You are skilled; you _should_ be capable of a corporeal Patronus by now. Sit."

Igor obeyed, ears red, inwardly fuming. She was right, though. All he needed was some happiness greater than his worst nightmares.

And therein lay the problem.


	67. Perseverance

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. In fact, it had seemed like a good idea even before then. But after eight weeks of a work schedule that didn't regularly include sleep, Igor Karkaroff was considering going back to the Ministry. This teaching thing had pitfalls – not the least of which was getting trapped in a three a.m. vortex of ungraded essays. Really _bad_ essays. Essays that would have made the previous Dark Arts teacher jinx the student responsible so they'd have a better grasp of the material.

Karkaroff sighed, picked up his quill, and plowed on.


	68. Photograph

The photograph is old, creased, a captured moment so distant that Karkaroff himself can't recall it.

Thin snow falls, dusting the eyelashes of a pale, pretty girl of six or seven. Beside her sprawls a boy of eight, and in the background beyond the hillock, the others: both black-haired boys, one four and one nine or ten. The older one grins mercilessly, stoops, then hurls a packed snowball at the youngest child, who takes it full in the face. It knocks him down; he begins wailing.

Karkaroff is oddly glad that this particular memory lives only in a faded photograph.


	69. Precaution

Karkaroff sheperded his students out of the Great Hall, paying particular attention to Viktor. He still looked a little peaky, even after the feast.

"Viktor, how are you feeling? Did you eat enough?" Karkaroff questioned. Viktor wasn't the type to ever make mention of his discomforts; his stoicism made him an excellent Quidditch player, but complicated Karkaroff's constant efforts to keep an eye on him. "Should I send for some mulled wine from the kitchens?"

Viktor shook his head, stubborn as stone.

Karkaroff made a mental note to call for some wine anyway, to have on hand. Just in case.


	70. Preparation

The water was cold. Karkaroff gasped and splashed a few handfuls over his gaunt face, doing his best to scrub away the sweat and grime. There was no time to rinse his hair.

Shivering, Karkaroff gripped the edges of the sink, trying to support his thin frame. His face in the mirror was deathly pale; faint screams in his head and a sharp chill in his chest told him the dementors were waiting just outside the door to take him to the Council. He prayed that he wouldn't pass out in their grasp.

_Let this work...Please, let this work..._


	71. Prey

They were close.

He didn't know how he knew, but he didn't question it, either. Karkaroff had always had the instincts of prey, not predator, and he obeyed them even while resenting his own weakness.

As a Death Eater, he had not been this way. Not with a mask to hide behind and comrades to prowl alongside. He had sometimes done things that wrenched his gut afterwards, that gave him recurring nightmares – but in the moment, with the others, it hadn't mattered. The intoxicating thrill of _power_...of being hunter, instead of hunted...

Mere delusion.

Karkaroff would always be prey.


	72. Probability

It happened at least once to every teacher; the laws of probability demanded it, given the sheer number of students. Being under thirty helped, too.

Karkaroff picked up the sixth year's quiz with uncharacteristic delicacy and stared at the tiny scribbling in the margins. His Romanian was admittedly a bit on the rusty side, but it didn't take a fluent speaker to understand the meaning of his own name surrounded by lots of little bubbly hearts.

Just because statistical odds ensured the emergence of at least one student crush didn't mean he knew what on Earth to _do_ about it.


	73. Promotion

"Ivana is dead," Zorbev repeated solemnly.

Karkaroff did not know what to think. The Headmistress who had given him his first teaching post, who had allowed him back into Durmstrang last summer after the frigid hell of Azkaban – dead of an accident, overnight, like a wrathful blow from heaven.

"There's a staff meeting in fifteen minutes." Zorbev could be blunt about absolutely anything. "I suggest you prepare yourself."

"For what?"

"The Dark Arts teacher has deputy headmastership by default. You know that."

Yes, that was right – Durmstrang tradition. So that meant that the acting headmaster was now…

Oh.

Karkaroff gawked.


	74. Questions

"Professor?"

Karkaroff started and turned, one elbow resting on the starboard railing.

"What is it, Tarasova?" he asked, somewhat sharply. She kept her distance.

"Professor, it's almost time for dinner."

"Is it?"

The sun's position confirmed this. Karkaroff frowned, glancing up at Hogwarts.

"Have everyone get ready, then. We'll leave soon."

"Yes, sir."

But she didn't move. Karkaroff glared.

"Professor..."

_"What?"_

"What are you worried about?"

He froze.

"You've been on deck for two hours, staring at nothing. All year you've been anxious; Viktor says you—"

_"Detention on helm_ tonight, Tarasova," Karkaroff interrupted, scowling. "And don't ask me questions."


	75. Quidditch

The stands erupted with screams and cheers as the Bludger smashed straight into Prokowski's ribcage, knocking the Quaffle from his grasp and sending him plummeting thirty feet. Someone with foresight and a sadistic streak had decided to put Durmstrang's Quidditch pitch above a lake, and Prokowski hit freezing water instead of grass.

_"That_ is why I don't play Quidditch," Igor said haughtily, watching Prokowski and his broom bob to the surface. "It's mad."

Next to him, Basil whooped for the players zooming overhead, then laughed. 

"Really, Igor? And here I thought it was because you can't stay on a broom."


	76. Rant

"Crouch attacked you? _Crouch_ attacked you? The Triwizard judge?"

Karkaroff felt the blood rising in his face as he drew himself up, clutching his furs tightly, glaring at Dumbledore.

"Igor—"

"Treachery!" he bellowed. "It is a plot!"

Every frustration of the past few months – Viktor's courting of a Mudblood, Severus's dismissal of his worries about the Dark Mark – found indirect expression in his impromptu tirade. First entering Harry Potter (like _that_ wasn't rubbing salt in old wounds) and now an attack on _his_ student by _Bartemius Crouch,_ of all people—

The impact with the tree trunk knocked Karkaroff unconscious.


	77. Request

The trouble with Viktor was that he was so damn _stoic._

"Do you _understand?"_ Karkaroff fumed. "Your actions tonight were a disgrace to your school, your championship, your very _blood!_ Escorting a common Muggleborn to the Yule Ball – I am ashamed at your lack of judgement."

Silence.

"You are above that kind of filth, Viktor."

Silence.

"What do you have to say for yourself?"

Silence.

It was almost disheartening. Karkaroff prepared to launch another tirade.

"Headmaster?"

Karkaroff halted. He was speaking. Could it be – at long last – a sign of repentance?

Viktor frowned.

"Please...Stay out of my luff life."


	78. Resignation

"You're sure about this, Igor?"

The young man smiled unctuously. "I'm afraid so, sir. Professor Baronova's retiring and she asked me personally. I simply can't refuse." He didn't add that being a full professor at Durmstrang was preferable to being veritably trapped in the lower levels of the Ministry – a fate he'd endured in the several years since he'd left school.

"Well, if you're certain..." The department head gave him an acquiescent shrug. "Am I to accept your resignation now?"

"Not quite yet. There are a few things I need to do first."

_Like actually apply for the teaching post._


	79. Return

The only thing worse than going to Azkaban was going back to Azkaban.

He'd only spent a few hours outside its walls, and even then in the constant company of dementors, but they'd been enough to give Karkaroff hope. 

Dementors loved the taste of hope.

Those last few months were the most brutal both physically and mentally. Karkaroff almost never slept, because the nightmare was always the same: _Council has deliberated and found your evidence insufficient for release; you will remain in Azkaban Fortress until your death –_

They got more names from him during those months. He woke screaming them.


	80. Risks

"Of course Moody is after you. You've hardly been careful about concealing your involvement, have you?"

Severus's logic was icy, as usual. Still, Karkaroff managed a weak smile.

"Well, surely – surely you understand my reasoning, Severus? For going into hiding?"

"Oh, yes, I quite understand. Whether _he_ will is debatable."

Karkaroff blanched. "Severus, you won't tell—"

"If you expect me to explain to the Dark Lord that you are putting your own safety ahead of his instructions, you are mistaken," Severus said coldly. "He will not protect you from the Aurors, but...flight risks his displeasure."

Karkaroff hid anyway.


	81. Rubbish

Karkaroff bared his yellow teeth in a distinctly unfriendly smile.

"Now, Dumbledore, really – I must protest this. The boy returned last..."

"Come on, Karkaroff!" Ludo Bagman thumped him a little too hard on the back. "Harry was trying to rescue _all_ the hostages! Quite brave of him, you have to admit."

Karkaroff scowled.

"On the contrary, he should have known they weren't in actual _danger;_ it was his own ignorance that—"

"It's the spirit of the thing, Igor," Dumbledore said. "Full marks?"

The other judges agreed. Karkaroff remained firmly seated as Bagman announced points.

Moral fiber. What absolute rubbish.


	82. Schedule

Igor shifted his weight nervously. Being asked by Professor Baronova to stay after class usually meant detention - or doom.

"I trust you know what this is about?"

He was silent. Baronova sighed.

"Your schedule, Igor. I want to verify that you are continuing next year, to prepare for N.E.W.T.s."

"But...The O.W.L.s aren't for a month; I don't know if—"

"You _will_ pass," she said shortly. "I've taught four Karkaroffs across eleven years, and only you seem to understand that the Dark Arts are an _art._ You'll continue next year, then?"

"I...um...Yes?"

"Good. You are dismissed."


	83. Scorn

"Severus, you cannot pretend this isn't happening!"

Karkaroff followed Snape through the winding maze of rosebushes, trying to keep his voice down even as anxiety scratched at his ribcage. All this time he had been waiting for a chance to talk, and now he was being spurned like an unwanted lover. "It's been getting clearer and clearer for months. I am becoming seriously concerned, I can't deny it—"

"Then flee. Flee – I will make your excuses. I, however, am remaining at Hogwarts."

Karkaroff nearly halted; the unsaid words stung.

_I have Dumbledore, you damned coward. This is _your_ problem._


	84. Screams

He watched the Muggle woman writhe and howl before him as though it were a show. Beside him, Antonin had Imperiused her husband for amusement; Karkaroff had to concentrate to keep the Cruciatus Curse strong over Antonin's laughter.

Karkaroff hated Muggles. He hated their clothes and their cars and their skyscrapers and their atomic bombs and the filthy dilution of wizarding blood that was increasing inexorably each generation. But most of all, he hated the way they screamed – and the way that afterwards, when the memories rang through his anxious mind, they sounded terrifyingly like the screams of real people.


	85. Sickness

All four of them had gotten dragon pox at the same time. Well, Ivan had gotten it first, but anything contagious in the house was guaranteed to spread between the children sooner rather than later. The others were fine after bedrest and some Anti-Itching Unction, but it was worse for Igor. He was only three.

The fever lasted several days too long. Igor shivered and sweated under the blankets, sometimes crying but often silent, emitting a low whimper if touched. His mother kept late hours by his bedside, murmuring softly and adjusting pillows, waiting for her youngest to be strong.


	86. Sleep

Karkaroff perched on the edge of the bed, haggard and tense, the brightly-labeled vial shaking in his hand. Breathing irregularly, he fumbled with the cork, trying to open it manually. He'd only been out of Azkaban for sixteen hours, and the new wand he'd bought was still as useless to him as a broken twig.

Finally, he managed to dig his dirty fingernails into the cork and prize it out; still trembling, he downed the entire potion and curled up on the broken mattress. It worked. Darkness came immediately.

For the first time in many nights, Igor Karkaroff slept peacefully.


	87. Spectating

It was a good seat. Not the Top Box, granted, or even the top row, but a good seat nonetheless.

Karkaroff stroked his goatee with one hand and idly twirled the adjustment knobs on his Omnioculars with the other, cranking up the speed settings. He would need them on maximum if he wanted Viktor to be anything more than a crimson blur, especially if he went into one of his Wronski Feints. The high settings would impair Karkaroff's ability to see the other, slower-flying players, but that hardly mattered.

It wasn't as though he'd be looking at anyone else, anyway.


	88. Stigma

It was naïve to think there were no Mudbloods at Durmstrang. There probably weren't many, and they themselves might not know the truth of their blood status, but lies and money guaranteed their presence.

Igor knew this even from his first year, and sometimes wondered in which of his classmates flowed the humiliation of thin, dirty, diluted blood. Idly he wondered, too, what it was like: to wake each morning knowing you were permanently tainted, to live each day knowing that nothing could curb others' contempt for you and everything you stood for.

Later in life, he would find out.


	89. Studying

Igor tore off another chunk of bread with his teeth and munched thoughtfully as he sat on Durmstrang's front steps, ignoring the brisk wind, head bent over _Intermediate Potionmaking Theory_. Crumbs from his lunch fell onto the open pages.

"Cramming for O.W.L.s, Karkaroff?" It was Lera.

"Like you should be." He swallowed a bite. "When's the Potions one?"

"Wednesday. Why?"

"Because the only way I'm going to pass it is with a good essay."

"Oh, come on. You're not that bad."

Igor made a small noise of dissent and flipped the page.

"Oh, really? How many cauldrons have _you_ melted?"


	90. Sulking

"Ivan! How _dare_ you!"

Igor hid behind the half-closed door, listening to his mother's furious lecture and rubbing his arm. She'd removed the festering purple boils, but it still stung, and he doubted Ivan would stop hexing him around corners; if Ivan's wand were taken away, he'd borrow Yuri's. Or, more likely, Yuri himself would pick up the slack.

Hesitantly, Igor peeked into the kitchen. The sulking Ivan noticed him and mouthed _"Coward!"_ so fiercely that Igor knew he would be jinxed thrice over before the week was out.

_Why_ did it have to be another two years till Durmstrang?


	91. Summons

"Viktor? _Viktor!"_

Viktor groans and sits up. Karkaroff shoves someone out of the way – he doesn't even care who – and tries to ignore everything rising inside himself, rage and disappointment and bitterness. Durmstrang's champion, _his_ champion, has lost.

"What happened?" he snarls. "Why did you send up sparks?"

"Sparks?" Viktor stiffens, looking over his shoulder at the maze's dark edge. "I did not send sparks. Something happened...I remember hearing somevone..."

Karkaroff cries out suddenly, clutching his left forearm.

No.

Oh God, _no._

"Professor?"

It can't be. Please...

But he doesn't look. It is.

"Professor Karkaroff? You haff gone vhite..."


	92. Tact

"You're going to do it, then?" Professor Trushin asks.

"Yes." Karkaroff is, in fact, arranging the appropriate paperwork across his mahogany desk as they speak. "I've already sent Dumbledore the confirmation. We've only to decide how many contenders to bring. Viktor _must_ come, of course; I'll have to owl his manager..."

"And how will the others be chosen?" Trushin inquires. "Not on the basis of your personal affections, I hope."

Karkaroff throws him a sharp, blue-eyed glare.

"I assure you the selection will be..._fair,"_ he says frostily. "And I advise you to take more care in phrasing your queries."


	93. Teaching

Igor Karkaroff, Professor of the Dark Arts at Durmstrang Institute, watched the students file into his first class. They were so…_small._ Surely _he _hadn't been that short as a first year? Had he?

They came to order surprisingly quickly. That was good. Karkaroff twirled his goatee around a finger and surveyed their ranks; for all their size, they were surprisingly intimidating. He tried to pinpoint why and realized it was because most of them had gotten out their textbooks and were staring at him. Intently. Like they expected him to teach them something.

Karkaroff Summoned a piece of chalk.


	94. Teasing

"I swear, Igor, if anybody—if we get _caught—"_

"Oh, come now." He smirked down at her, pressed warmly between the wall and his own body, the dusty cupboard illuminated only by light from his wand. "Surely you agree there are better things to do than Ministry paperwork?"

He bit her ear teasingly, and she stifled a giggle as his goatee tickled her neck. Even still, her wandtip pressed gently into his stomach.

"Nervous, are we?" he whispered.

"We're at _work."_

"Tch. So technical."

"You're a pain in the ass, Igor."

Or so she said. Ensuing behavior suggested otherwise.


	95. Trouble

Student parties at Durmstrang were forbidden (and difficult to orchestrate): thus, rare and roaring. There had been one last night, but Igor knew this only by deductive reasoning.

Fact: he smelled of vodka and had a pounding headache. Conclusion: there had been a party.

Fact: he had woken up in an abandoned second-floor classroom used for storage by the Transfiguration teacher. Conclusion: The party had been in the second-floor dorms, probably seventh years'.

Fact: He was missing his wand, and someone had stolen all but his shoes. Also, there were footsteps coming up the corridor.

Conclusion: He was in trouble.


	96. Untouched

"Why so worried, Igor?" Masha traced a finger across his exposed collarbone, smirking wickedly. "This was _your _idea."

Igor shuddered, though from cold, fear, or pleasure, he didn't know which.

"I…We…that is…"

"We'll be fine." With practiced ease, she added a mild curse onto the lock of the abandoned classroom. "I thought you wanted…?"

"I – I do, but – What if—"

Masha's tongue grazed the back of his neck. Igor jolted.

"Just _relax, _would you?"

Fortunately, Igor didn't have to figure out how to. When Masha deftly shed her robes and reapplied her tongue, his brain stopped working.


	97. Urge

Karkaroff cowered, shaking uncontrollably with cold and terror, the dementors' scabby hands clamped tightly around his thin arms as they dragged him through the Ministry's main lobby.

He was going back. Rookwood—only Rookwood had been worth anything—_he was going back—_

No one ignored his passing. The politest merely glowered, but through his tormented thoughts Karkaroff became aware of sneers and insults, rude gestures and bitter laughter fit for a filthy animal being dragged back to its cage.

Karkaroff had the sudden urge to speak, to scream out that he was human, too – but the dementors kept him silent.


	98. Valentine

February afternoon. Snow comes down by the barrel, drenching Castle Durmstrang in endless white made crimson by the early winter sunset. Gray flecks roam the grounds, older students with off-periods to squander.

A lone figure stomps toward the front gate, furious, ignoring the weather – a lanky sixth-year boy, snowflakes lightening his black hair. With palpable rage, he clutches the charred stem of a rose, ignoring the thorns, blue eyes glittering.

There, blatant: a red handprint across his left cheek, swiftly darkening to a five-fingered bruise.

The boy curses in Russian, throws the dead rose aside, and continues to the gate.


	99. Voyage

"But Headmaster—"

"Enough excuses." The heavy wooden door of the captain's cabin muffled Karkaroff's voice. "You are all seventh years and capable of steering this ship yourselves. There will be no talking yourself out of helm duty, Poliakoff."

The ship lurched, throwing Poliakoff against the closed door.

"But Headmaster, the current is very vild here, ve—"

"You are not at your post, Poliakoff! Go, now!"

There was no point in arguing; Poliakoff left, grumbling. The Headmaster _always_ shut himself up whenever the sea got rough. Lazy bastard.

Outside, the ocean heaved violently.

Inside his cabin, so did Karkaroff.


	100. Whimper

They found Karkaroff's body in a shack with the Dark Mark over it.

It was bitterly cold, so the smell wasn't yet bothersome. Nor was the corpse's condition that unsettling; Karkaroff had been kept surprisingly whole. Bones were broken, flesh was torn, frozen blood coated everything – but he was easily identifiable, and technically in one piece.

No, it was something else that made the sight disturbing. It was his telling expression: eyes squeezed closed, jaw tight, teeth and tongue stained crimson.

Torture had so broken him that he had died not with an agonized scream, but an animal's dumb whimper.


End file.
